RIGHT  OFF 
THE  BAT 


Lfornia 

mal 

tty 


WILLIAM  F.KIRK 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


RIGHT    OFF 
THE    BAT 

BASEBALL   BALLADS 


By 
WILLIAM  F.  KIRK 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

H.  B.  M'ARTIN 


G.   W.    DILLINGHAM    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


(These  verses  originally  appeared  in  the  New  York  Evening  Journal,  and  are  here 
reprinted  through  the  courtesy  of  the  National  News  Association.) 

COPYRIGHT,  1910-1911.  BY 
NATIONAL  NEWS  ASSOCIATION 

COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

Right  Of  The  Bat 


TO 

JOHN   J.  McGRAW 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER 
OF  BASEBALL 


2130668 


CONTENTS 

John  Bourbon,  Pitcher  . 

Sunday  Baseball    .        .        .        . 

The  Big  League  .... 

The  Ballad  of  the  Minor  Leaguer 

Ballade  of  a  Substitute  . 

Casey  on  a  Bat     .... 

The  Pitcher's   Soliloquy 

Blessed  Be  Baseball 

Raymond's   Ride   .... 

Four  Conversations 

"Inside"  Baseball  .... 

The  Difference      .... 

Cricket  and  Baseball     . 

The  League  of  Long  Ago  . 

The  Longest  Hit  on  Record  . 

The  Umpire's  Home     . 

"Yellow" 

The  Umpire 

"Choosing  Sides"  .... 
Ode  to  a  Georgia  Gent  .        . 
Life  and  Baseball  .... 
What  Happened  to  Hilo 

5 


CONTENTS 


I  Was  with  Clarke 

"Home  Folks"       .... 

The  Outfielder's  Dream 

The  Law  of  Averages  . 

A  Converted  Rooter     . 

To  the  Lady  Bugs 

Polo  in  Arizona    .... 

The  Laddies'  League    . 

The  $11,000  Beauty 

The  Lay  of  the  New  York  Fan  . 

The  Old   Rooter   .... 

"If" 


Right  Off  the  Bat 


JOHN    BOURBON,    PITCHER 

THEY  tell  me  that  Matty  can  pitch  like  a  fiend, 
But  many  long  years  before  Matty  was  weaned 
I  was  pitching  to  players,  and  good  players,  too, 
Mike  Kelley  and  Rusie  and  all  the  old  crew. 
Red  Sockalexis,  the  Indian  star, 
Breitenstein,  Clancy,  McGill  and  McGarr. 
Matty  a  pitcher?  Well,  yes,  he  may  be, 
But  where  in  the  world  is  a  pitcher  like  me? 

My  name  is  John  Bourbon,  I'm  old,  and  yet  young; 
I  cannot  keep  track  of  the  victims  I've  stung. 
I've  studied  their  weaknesses,  humored  their  whims, 
Muddled  their  eyesight  and  weakened   their  limbs, 
Bloated  their  faces  and  dammed  up  their  veins, 
Rusted  their  joints  and  beclouded  their  brains. 
Matty  a  pitcher?   Well,  yes-,  he  may  be, 
But  where  in  the  world  is  a  pitcher  like  me? 

7 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

I  have  pitched  to  the  stars  of  our  national  game, 

I  have  pitched  them  to  ruin  and  pitched  them  to  shame. 

They   laughed   when   they   faced    me,   so   proud    of   their 

strength, 

Not  knowing,  poor  fools,  I  would  get  them  at  length. 
I  have  pitched  men  off  pinnacles  scaled  in  long  years. 
I  have  pitched  those  they  loved  into  oceans  of  tears. 
Matty  a  pitcher?   Well,  yes,  he  may  be, 
But  where  in  the  world  is  a  pitcher  like  me? 


SUNDAY    BASEBALL 

THE  East  Side  Slashers  were  playing  the 
Terrors, 
Piling  up  hits,  assists  and  errors; 
Far  from  their  stuffy  tenement  homes 
That  cluster  thicker  than  honeycombs, 
They  ran  the  bases  like  busy  bees, 
Fanned  by  the  Hudson's  cooling  breeze. 

Mrs.   Hamilton-Marshall-Gray, 

Coming  from  church,  chanced  to  pass  that  way. 

She  saw  the  frolicking  urchins  there, 

Their  shrill  cries  splitting  the  Sabbath  air. 

"Mercy!"  she  murmured,  "this  must  stop!" 

Then  promptly  proceeded  to  call  a  cop ; 

And  the  cop  swooped  down  on  the  luckless  boys, 

Stopping  their  frivolous  Sunday  joys. 

Mrs.  Hamilton-Marshall-Gray 
Spoke  to  her  coachman  and  drove  away 
Through  beautiful  parks,  o'er  shady  roads, 
Past  splashing  fountains  and  rich  abodes. 
Reaching  her  home,  she  was  heard  to  say 
"How  awful  to  break  the  Sabbath  day !" 

9 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

The  Slashers  and  Terrors,  side  by  side, 

Started  their  stifling  subway  ride 

Down  through  the  city,  ever  down 

To  the  warping  walls  of  Tenement  Town. 

Reaching  their  homes,  the  troublesome  tots 

Crept  away  to  their  shabby  cots 

And  dreamed  of  the  grass  and  the  droning  bees, 

The  pure,  cool  air  and  the  waving  trees, 

And  how  they  had  played  their  baseball  game 

Till  the  Beautiful  Christian  Lady  came. 


10 


THE    BIG    LEAGUE 

YOU  want  to  play  in  the  Big  League,  boy? 
I  guess  that  you  will  some  day, 
For  you've  shown  the  speed  the  managers  need 
And  the  lightning  brain  (the  managers'  creed), 
And  the  heart  that  will  bid  you  stay. 

But  when  you  go  to  the  Big  League,  boy, 

And  play  on  the  Big  League  grounds, 
As  the  seasons  roll  you  will  pay  the  toll 
From  your  fresh  young  nerves  and  your  clean  young  soul, 

Till  your  pulse  less  buoyantly  bounds. 

And  you'll  learn  strange  things  in  the  Big  League,  boy, 

The  cream  of  the  good  and  bad ; 
You  will  come  to  know,  in  that  shifting  show, 
The  things  that  I  learned  in  the  long  ago 

When  I,  too,  was  a  careless  lad. 

For  I  came  to  play  in  the  Big  League,  boy, 

And  I  played  my  string  to  the  end. 
To  eyes  divine  where  the  white  lights  shine 
I  mumbled  toasts  over  bubbling  wine — 

And  finished  minus  a  friend. 

IT 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

You  want  to  play  in  the  Big  League,  boy? 

I  guess  that  you  will,  some  day, 
And  this  is  the  prayer  of  an  old-time  player- 
None  was  stronger  and  none  was  gayer — 

God  help  you  along  your  way. 


12 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  MINOR  LEAGUER 

HE  came  here  in  the  early  Spring  with  all  the  try- 
out  mob, 
Striving  to  bat  like  Wagner  and  to  slide  (spikes 

first)  like  Cobb. 

Some  of   the  vets  cried,  "Bonehead!"     Others  remarked, 
"Poorzob!" 

Modest  as  Spring's  arbutus,  calm  as  an  April  dawn, 
He  asked  for  no  advances  though  his  ticker  was  in  pawn; 
He  learned  the  law  from  Jawn  McGraw  but  never  called 
him  "Jawn." 

He  graced  the  bench  until  July,  leading  the  simple  life — 
He  wouldn't  touch  a  cocktail  once  to  please  a  schoolmate's 

wife; 
The  slightest  hint  of  a  "creme  de  mint"  would  cut  him 

like  a  knife. 

The  village  smith  that  stood  beneath  the  spreading  chestnut 

tree 

Had  nothing  on  this  youngster  in  the  dodging  of  a  spree. 
Others  could  tipple  if  they  would — not  for  Recruit  McGee. 

13 


RIGHT    OFF     THE     BAT 

Thus  did  the  minor  leaguer  seek  for  affluence  and  fame — 
Virtue's  its  own  reward  at  times,  but  oft  it  pulls  up  lame. 
Now  he  has  went  back  to  the  place  from  which  he  once 
had  came! 


BALLADE   OF   A   SUBSTITUTE 

I'VE  been  here  nearly  a  season  now, 
Watching  the  regulars,  day  after  day; 
I  wish  some  wizard  would  tell  me  how 
To  break  right  into  the  game  and  stay. 
It  isn't  as  if  I  were  some  thick  jay, 
Like  a  lot  of  those  clumsy  "Class  B"  flivvers, 

But  I'm  glued  to  the  bench  so  hard  that,  say — 
The  seat  of  my  pants  is  full  of  slivers. 

McGill  is  a  terrible  lobbygow, 

But  he's  drawing  a  regular  shortstop's  pay; 
He  romps  around  like  a  crippled  cow 

And  shows  the  speed  of  a  two-ton  dray. 

Night  after  night  I  kneel  and  pray 
For  a  chance  to  work  with  the  real  high  livers, 

But  I  guess  I'll  sub  till  my  hair  turns  gray — 
The  seat  of  my  pants  is  full  of  slivers. 

15 


RIGHT    OFF     THE    BAT 

Clancy  ought  to  be  steering  a  plow 

Back  on  the  farm  near  old  Green  Bay; 
He's  playing  third,  with  his  slanting  brow ; 

And  Dugan  ought  to  be  pitching  hay. 

The  bulls  they've  made  since  the  first  of  May 
Would  give  a  McGraw  one  million  shivers, 

But  it's  "stay  on  the  bench!"  for  Kid  O'Shay, 
The  seat  of  my  pants  is  full  of  slivers. 

"ENVY " 

Manager,  pardon  this  mournful  bray, 

But  my  pride  is  hurt  and  my  conscience  quivers ; 
Give  me  one  chance  in  the  thick  of  the  fray — 

The  seat  of  my  pants  is  full  of  slivers. 


16 


CASEY    ON    A    BAT 

IT  looked  extremely  rocky  for  the  Boston  team  that  day, 
The  score  was  one  to  nothing,  with  one  inning  left 

to  play. 
Casey,  who  played  in  centre  field,  had  shown  an  hour  too 

late — 

He  hadn't  any  alibi  when  staggering  through  the  gate. 
So  when  he  tore  his  necktie  off  and  stepped  upon  his  hat 
The  manager  looked  grim  and  said,  "It's  Casey  on  a  bat." 

"Well,"  said  the  Boston  manager,  "with  joy  I  ought  to 

scream — 

Here's  Casey  with  a  dandy  load,  the  best  man  on  the  team. 
He  told  me  he  was  sober,  but  he  couldn't  quite  get  by 
When  he  stepped  upon  his  derby  and  was  yanking  off  his  tie. 
Of  all  the  hard  luck  in  the  world !    The  mean,  ungrateful 

rat! 

A  blooming  championship  at  stake  and  Casey  on  a  bat." 

17 


RIGHT    OFF     THE     BAT 

Two  Boston  batters  in  the  ninth  were  speedily  retired, 
"Here,  Casey !"  cried  the  manager,  speaking  as  one  inspired, 
"Go  in  and  bat  for  Grogan !  There's  a  man  on  second  base, 
And  if  you  hit  the  way  you  can  we'll  win  the  pennant  race." 
This  is  no  knock  on  buttermilk,  or  anything  like  that, 
But  the  winning  hit  was  made  that  day  by  Casey  on  a  bat. 


18 


THE    PITCHER'S   SOLILOQUY 

A    PITCHER  known  in  the  days   gone  by 
As  a  star  of  the  first  degree 
Was  making  the  dirt  and  gravel  fly 
In  the  shade  of  an  old  oak  tree. 
His  spade  was  long  and  his  arm  was  strong, 

And  the  ditch  that  he  dug  was  wide; 
He  paused  at  the  sound  of  the  dinner  gong — 
And  this  is  the  sermon  he  sighed: 

"Young  man,  you  are  climbing  the  ladder  now — 

Your  arm  is  as  firm  as  steel; 
The  wreath  of  laurel  is  on  your  brow 

And  the  pride  of  a  prince  you  feel. 
Do  you  think  you  will  play  when  your  hair  turns  gray  ? 

I  thought  my  prowess  would  last, 
But  you  can't  strike  out  the  men  of  to-day 

With  the  curves  you  threw  in  the  past  1" 
19 


RIGHT    OFF     THE    BAT 

In  the  merciless  baseball  game  of  life 

We  may  shine  for  a  fleeting  hour, 
But  the  strongest  frame  comes  to  shun  the  strife 

And  loses  its  youthful  power. 
So  strive  to  lay,  while  it  comes  your  way, 

A  fence  for  Adversity's  blast. 
,You  can't  strike  out  the  men  of  to-day 

iWith  the  curves  you  threw  in  the  past. 


20 


BLESSED    BE    BASEBALL 

THE  game  was  on!   The  cheers  and  roars 
Rang  Eastward  to  Long  Island's  shores; 
"Come  on,  you  Matty — show  your  class!" 
"Oh,  you  Red  Murray !  Scorch  the  grass  1" 

"Heads  up,  Big  Injun!"    "Scoop  'em,  Bridwelll" 
"Devore  stole  home!  And  sure  he  slid  well!" 
These  and  a  thousand  other  roars 
Rang  Eastward  to  Long  Island's  shores. 


And  folks  of  various  sorts  were  there 

From  East  Side  yeggs  to  ladies  fair; 

Here  a  tragedian,  there  a  joker, 

Here  a  banker  and  there  a  broker. 

Young  dry  goods  clerks  with  booze  clerks  mingled, 

And  all  sat  in  with  nerves  that  tingled. 

21 


RIGHT    OFF     THE    BAT 

One  white-haired  woman  sat  alone, 
Proud  as  a  queen  upon  her  throne. 
One  dear  old  lady,  calm,  sedate, 
Age,  very  likely,  eighty-eight. 
"Isn't  she  sweet?"  the  women  said; 
"Look  at  that  lovely  silvery  head!" 

As  in  the  sun  she  serenely  basked 

A  rooter  sitting  beside  her  asked: 

"How  did  you  come  to  get  away?" 

"My  grandson,"  she  answered,  "died  to-day  I' 


22 


RAYMOND'S    RIDE 

LISTEN,  dear  rooters,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  ride  of  a  modern  Paul  Revere. 
The  Paul  Revere  of  "seventy-five" 
Rode  like  a  fiend  and  won  in  a  drive. 
The  Paul  Revere  whose  praises  I  sing 
Is  Arthur  Raymond,  the  spitball  king. 


No  plunging  charger,  no  Arab  steed, 
Loans  to  Raymond  its  wondnous  speed, 
No  dainty  thoroughbred,  sleek  of  side, 
Plays  a  part  in  our  Raymond's  ride. 
Just  a  lumbering  wagon,  creaking  and  shaking 
Serves  for  the  wonderful  ride  he's  taking. 
And  it  hustles  him  over  hollow  and  hill, 
Drawn  by  a  good  old  horse  named  WILL. 

23 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

It  bumps  like  blazes  and  swerves  like  sin 
When  it  nears  a  bar  or  passes  an  inn ; 
It  jerks  like  the  tail  of  a  'crazy  kite 
When  a  brewery  looms  on  the  left  or  right. 
When  it  nears  The  Coop  or  The  Rooters'  Rest 
It  bucks  as  a  mustang  bucks  out  West. 
But,  calmly  refusing  to  get  a  jag  on, 
Raymond  clings  to  that  water  wagon. 

*     *     * 

To  Revere's  great  feat  you  may  point  with  pride, 
But  Raymond  is  riding  a  greater  ride.* 

*This  is  only  a  spring  poem. 


FOUR    CONVERSATIONS 

I  USED  to  have  'em  buffaloed  when  I  was  with  Duluth, 
Out  in  that  dinky  pine  tree  league,  and  here's  the 
honest  truth: 

This  Mathewson  ain't  better.  Say,  the  benders  that  I  slung 
Had  all  the  sluggers  swinging  till  they'd  almost  bust  a  lung. 
I'll  get  'em  just  the  s&me  right  here — McGraw  knows  I 

can't  lose." 
Said  the  Pitcher  to  the  Barboy  up  at  Paddy  Donahue's. 

"I  lost  a  tough  game  yesterday,  but  that  don't  make  me  sad ; 
Believe  me,  I  had  everything — they  walloped  all  I  had. 
I  didn't  get  no  swell  support;  my  catcher  crossed  me  twice 
And  all  the  infield  acted  like  a  wagon  full  of  ice. 
They  all  support  this  Mathewson.    When  I  go  in  we  lose !" 
Said  the  Pitcher  to  the  Barboy  up  at  Paddy  Donahue's. 

25 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

"I've  been  here  just  two  months  to-day,  and  things  are 

looking  black ; 

I  lost  a  tough  one  yesterday,  and  now  I've  got  the  sack. 
Say,  everyone's   against  me,  kid.    My  curve   is  breaking 

great, 
But  four  guys  slammed  it  yesterday  clear  to  the  left  field 

gate. 
Now  I'm  released — you  hear  me  ?    Released  with  run-down 

shoes !" 

Said  the  Pitcher  to  the  Barboy  up  at  Paddy  Donahue's. 

*     *    * 

"Get  out  of  here,  you  rummy!   I  can't  hand  you  no  more 

booze!" 
Said  the  Barboy  to  the  Pitcher  up  at  Paddy  Donahue's. 


"INSIDE"    BASEBALL 

(The  warden  of  one  of  the  State  penitentiaries  has  begun  a  system  of 
Saturday  half  holidays  for  the  convicts,  a  baseball  game  on  the  prison 
grounds  being  the  main  feature.) 

YOU  talk  of   "inside"  baseball  and  of  managerial 
plans, 
Of  signs  and  mental  flashes  that  are  Greek  to  all 

the  fans; 

You  tell  of  wondrous  brainwork,  such  as  Evers  used  to  use 
When  he  wasn't  in  his  shoe  store,  selling  patent  leather 

shoes. 
I've  seen  some  "inside"  baseball  in  the  various  big  league 

towns, 
And  seen  some  "inside"  pitching  by  the  Mathewsons  and 

Browns, 

But  the  finest  "inside"  baseball  I  have  seen  in  many  a  day 
Is  inside  the  dear  old  prison,  where  they  like  to  have  me 
stay. 

27 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

The  Yeggmen  lead  the  league  just  now — that  team  is  full 

•** 
of  tricks; 

They  beat  the  Con  Men  yesterday  by  seventeen  to  six. 
The  Lifers  have  an  outside  chance  to  win  the  prison  flag; 
The  Counterfeiters  still  have  hopes,  although  they  seldom 

brag. 

The  pitcher  for  the  Grafters,  namely,  Alderman  McGee, 
Has  bet  his  good  behavior  that  they'll  finish  one,  two,  three. 
Yes,  the  finest  "inside"  baseball  I  have  seen  in  many  a  day 
Is  inside  the  dear  old  prison,  where  they  like  to  have  me 

stay. 

The  game  we  had  last  Saturday  was  sure  a  corking  sight ; 
The  Yeggmen  beat  the  Grafters,  but  the  Grafters  made 

them  fight. 
McGee,   the    Grafters'   pitcher,   had   to  hide   his  head    in 

shame — 

He  tried  to  bribe  the  warden,  who  was  umpiring  the  game 
If  Saturday's  a  pleasant  day  for  outside  games  like  ball 
The  Con  Men  play  the  Lifers,  and  we'll  be  there,  one  and 

all. 

For  the  finest  "inside"  baseball  I  have  seen  in  many  a  day 
Is  inside  the  dear  old  prison,  where  they  like  to  have  me 

stay. 


28 


THE    DIFFERENCE 

""TTT'S  just  this  way,"  said  Danny  O'Shay, 

/:        As  he  whittled  a  stick  and  the  hours  away, 
-*-      "A  player  can  booze  for  a  year  or  two, 
The  same  as  me  or  the  same  as  you. 
You  meet  a  ball-gamer  now  and  then 
Who  can  guzzle  more  than  the  most  of  men. 
But  sooner  or  later  he  has  to  go 
The  way  I  was  chased  from  the  big  league  show. 

"The  difference,  kid,"  said  Danny  O'Shay, 
"Between  the  hard  and  the  easy  way, 
As  far  as  ball  players  goes,  at  least, 
Is  a  difference  big  as  the  West  and  East. 
I  played  ten  years  before  I  was  spurned, 
And  this  is  the  lesson  your  uncle  learned : 
The  boozer  THINKS  he  is  splitting  the  wood, 
The  man  that  is  sober  KNOWS  he's  good. 

29 


RIGHT    OFF     THE     BAT 

"You  see,"  continued  Danny  O'Shay, 
"A  dog  and  a  man  must  have  his  day. 
I  played  like  a  demon  for  seven  years, 
'Till  I  switched  to  whiskey  and  quit  my  beers. 
I  laughed  at  the  friends  that  steered  me  right, 
But  here's  the  difference,  black  and  white: 
The  boozer  THINKS  he  is  splitting  the  wood, 
The  man  that  is  sober  KNOWS  he's  good." 


CRICKET   AND    BASEBALL 

THE  cricket  game  was  over  and  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing low, 
The  players  in  their  blazers  plodded  homeward  in 

a  row. 

They  stopped  within  the  clubhouse  for  a  final  cup  of  tea, 
When  up  spake  Captain  Edgerton  to  Bowler  Basil  Fee : 

"Jolly  well  tried,  old  chap! 

You  lost  as  the  greatest  can; 
But  whether  you  win  or  whether  you  lose 

You're  always  a  gentleman. 
Have  a  Scotch  and  soda,  old  fellow — 

It  will  drive  off  the  blooming  blues ; 
Keep  up  your  stride,  you  jolly  well  tried, 

And  a  man  can't  always  lose." 

The  baseball  game  was  over  and  the  home  team  had  been 

skinned, 
The  players  slunk  across  the  field  while  sundry  knockers 

grinned ; 

31 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

They  hurried  to  the  clubhouse  for  a  bath  and  change  of 

garb, 
When  up  spake  Manager  McDuff,  and  each  word  was  a 

barb: 

"Fine  lot  of  high-priced  athletes! 

Most  of  you  ain't  alive! 
I  could   pick  a  team   from  the   Soldiers'  Home 

And  beat  you  four  out  of  five. 
Be  out  here  at  ten  to-morrow — 

That  goes  the  way  that  it  lays; 
Any  mixed-ale  sport  that  doesn't  report 

Will  squat  on  the  bench  ten  days!" 


THE   LEAGUE   OF   LONG   AGO 

THEY'VE  got  me  sitting  on  the  bench — I  knew  it 
had  to  come — 
Kid  Casey  subbed  for  me  at  third  the  day  I  broke 

my  thumb; 

My  thumb  got  better  fast  enough,  but  when  I  wanted  back, 
"The  Kid  is  stinging  them  a  mile,"  says  good  old  Captain 

Mack. 

"The  Kid  is  running  bases  like  a  Murray  or  a  Cobb, 
The  Kid  does  this,  the  Kid  does  that,  the  Kid  is  on  the  job." 
And  so  I'm  sitting  on  the  bench,  my  spirits  sort  o'  low, 
And  playing  memory  ball  games  in  the  League  of  Long 
Ago. 

I'm  pulling  for  Kid  Casey,  and  I  hope  he  makes  a  mint, 
I  help  him  every  way  I  can,  from  cussword  down  to  hint; 
He  knows  that  I  am  for  him,  too — 'twas  only  yesterday 

33 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

He  says  to  me,  "Old  leaguer,  you've  got  ten  more  years 

to  play." 
But  I  know  that  he  knows  better,  and  I  know  just  what 

I'm  worth — 

A  man  can't  last  forever  in  the  swiftest  game  on  earth. 
And  so  I'm  sitting  on  the  bench,  my  spirits  sort  o'  low, 
And  playing  memory  ball  games  in  the  League  of  Long 

Ago. 

I  played  with  Old  Buck  Ewing  just  before  Buck  blew  the 

game, 

I  played  with  Jimmy  Ryan  in  the  days  of  Anson's  fame. 
Then  I  was  just  a  fresh  young  kid,  and  they  were  getting 

old, 

But  not  one  slur  they  gave  me  when  I  broke  into  the  fold. 
That's  why  I  like  Kid  Casey,  and  I'll  plug  like  sin  for  him, 
I  told  Mack  only  yesterday  my  eyes  were  getting  dim. 
And  so  I'm  sitting  on  the  bench,  my  spirits  sort  o'  low, 
And  playing  memory  ball  games  in  the  League  of  Long 

Ago. 


34 


THE    LONGEST    HIT    ON    RECORD 

I'VE  heard  of  hits  by  Wagner,  hits  that  scaled  the  left 
field  fence, 
I've  read  about  full  many  a  clout  tremendous  and 

immense ; 

I  know  about  that  old  time  wheeze  where  Ryan  hit  a  ball 
That  lit  upon  a  steamer  due  in  London  late  that  Fall. 
But  the  longest  hit  on  record  was  a  hit  by  Dan  O'Shay 
When  the  Bankers  played  the  Brokers  just  five  years  ago 
to-day. 

Dan  played  left  field  or  right  field,  I  can't  remember  which, 
But  when  it  came  to  batting — well,  Dan  had  the  batter's 

itch. 

His  fellow  brokers  often  said — perhaps  they  did  but  joke — 
They  spent  their  all  repairing  baseball  fences  Danny  broke. 
But  the  longest  hit  Dan  ever  made,  as  I  set  out  to  say, 
Was  made  against  the  Bankers  just  five  years  ago  to-day. 

35 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

A  banker  named  O'Connor  waited  out  in  centre  field 
When  Dan  O'Shay  came  to  the  plate,  his  nerves  all  calm 

and  steeled. 
Dan  hit  the  ball  an  awful  soak,  O'Connor  clenched  his 

teeth, 

And  after  quite  a  fearsome  sprint,  the  ball  he  got  beneath. 
Just  as  he  caught  the  pellet  two  detectives  hove  in  sight ; 
He  put  the  ball  inside  his  shirt  and  told  the  gang  "GOOD 

NIGHT!" 

He  ran  to  far-off    Labrador,  the  land  of  ice  and  snow, 
And  everywhere  O'Connor  went  the  ball  was  sure  to  go. 
From  there  he  went  to  Canada,  from  there  he  made  Bengal, 
Then  journeyed  he  to  Mandalay,  accompanied  by  that  ball. 
And  then  he  tried  Australia,  seeking  diamonds  in  the  dirt, 
But  all  the  time  he  kept  that  ball  he'd  hidden  in  his  shirt. 

He  didn't  like  Australia,  so  he  trekked  to  many  a  land, 
From    Greenland's    icy   mountains   clear  to   India's    coral 

strand. 
He  sweltered  in  strange  deserts,  onward,  onward,  day  by 

day, 

But  always  kept  that  baseball  hit  so  hard  by  Dan  O'Shay. 
If  you  ever  go  to  Sing  Sing,  which  I  hope  you  never  will, 

You'll  find  O'Connor  in  a  cell  with  that  same  horsehide  pill. 

*     *     * 

Yes,  the  longest  hit  on  record  was  a  hit  by  Dan  O'Shay, 
When  the  Bankers  played  the  Brokers,  just  five  years  ago 

to-day. 

36 


THE    UMPIRE'S    HOME 

WHERE  does  an  umpire  live?    You  ask  me  that? 
Come,  I  will  take  you  to  an  umpire's  flat. 
Ah!  Here  we  are!  Tis  five  flights  up,  behind; 
Umpires  are  used  to  hiding — they  don't  mind. 
This  is  the  entrance.     It's  a  bachelor's  den, 
For  umpires  aren't  often  married  men. 
The  owner's  not  at  home,  but  come  with  me; 
I  know  him  well  and  have  an  extra  key. 

This  is  the  library;  note  well  the  books, 
Dingy  and  dismal,  like  the  umpire's  looks. 
"Lives  of  the  Martyrs,"  "The  Deserted  Home," 
"Dante's  Inferno,"  "Rise  and  Fall  of  Rome." 
"Paradise  Lost,"  "The  Sinking  of  the  Maine," 
"Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol,"  and  "Souls  in  Pain." 
"The  Death  of  Joan  of  Arc,"  "The  Convict's  Woe," 
And  all  the  works  of  Edgar  Allen  Poe. 

37 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

This  is  the  dining  room,  all  done  in  black, 
With  rugs  of  drab  and  tapestries  of  sack 
Notice  the  mottoes  on  the  gloomy  walls: 
"Drink  to  the  countless  strikes  that  I  called  balls," 
"A  toast  to  all  the  close  ones  that  I  miss," 
"A  curse  upon  the  man  who  loves  to  hiss!" 
Where  does  an  umpire  live?    You  ask  me  that? 
Well,  I  have  shown  you  through  an  umpire's  flat. 


"YELLOW" 

HE  WASN'T  a  strong  looking  fellow, 
And  roughnecks  played  ball  in  those  days; 
The  ballgamers  christened  him  "Yellow" 
Because  of  his  mild,  timid  ways. 
Red  Flynn  slapped  his  face  to  a  whisper 

One  day  when  he  missed  a  fly  ball, 
And  his  jaw  almost  broke  when  he  got  a  swell  soak 
From  the  fist  of  Outfielder  McCall. 

I  used  to  feel  sorry  for  "Yellow," 

The  gang  made  his  life  one  long  moan. 
He  wasn't  a  strong  looking  fellow, 

They  ought  to  have  let  him  alone. 
I've  found,  in  my  baseball  excursions, 

From  Maine  to  the  parks  way  out  West, 
That  the  players  who  win  and  draw  down  the  tin, 

Are  the  players  who  throw  out  the  chest. 

But  courage  is  courage,  I  reckon  ; 

It's  hard  to  explain,  but  it's  true ; 
And  sometimes  a  fellow  that  people  call  yellow 

39 


RIGHT    OFF     THE     BAT 

Turns  out  to  be  brave  and  true  blue. 
One  day  when  a  hit  meant  a  pennant 

Our  "Yellow"  came  up  to  the  bat ; 
Did  he  quit  in  the  pinch?    Did  he  falter  and  flinch? 

Sure  he  did.    He  struck  out  like  a  rat! 


40 


THE    UMPIRE 

HE  WAS  tall  and  rugged  and  coated  with  tan, 
He  asked  no  odds  and  he  feared  no  man. 
When   he   shouted    "Strike!"   or   yelped   "Ball 

Two!" 

You  can  wager  it  went,  and  went  clear  through. 
Seldom  he  argued,  and  never  he  fined 
The  player  who  cursed  or  the  player  who  whined, 
But  he  ran  the  game  from  beginning  to  end, 
Knew  no  mercy  and  feared  no  friend. 

Six  years  in  the  league  he  remained  the  same, 
Sneering  at  kickers  and  bossing  the  game, 
Snapping  at  roughnecks  who  made  foolish  howls, 
Slapping  them,  sometimes,  fair  on  the  jowls; 
Taking  no  talk,  always  making  good, 
He  ran  the  game  as  an  umpire  should, 
Till  every  paper  and  every  fan 
Allowed  that  Flynn  was  a  fearless  man. 

41 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

Flynn  weighed  two  hundred,  ringside  weight, 

His  sweet  little  wife  weighed  a  hundred  and  eight; 

But  when  he  finished  the  daily  game 

And  home  to  his  small  apartment  came 

It  was  "Mike,  you're  late !"  and  "Stay  in  the  flat !" 

"Mike,  do  this!"  and  "Mike,  do  that!" 

'Twas  surely  a  shame,  and  almost  a  sin, 

The  way  that  she  bullied  the  fearless  Flynn. 
*     *     * 

Kipling  knew  nothing  concerning  the  Flynns 
When  he  wrote  about  "bearing  the  yoke." 

A  woman  is  only  a  woman,  perhaps, 
But  an  umpire's  only  a  joke. 


42 


"CHOOSING    SIDES" 

BASEBALL,  they  say,  has  changed  a  heap;  I  guess 
it  has,  in  spots, 
And  "yet  I  liked  it  better  when  we  played  it  on 

the  lots. 

There  were  no  signs  for  "hit  and  run,"  no  dazzling  "fade- 
aways" ; 

We  had  no  high-priced  managers  to  tell  us  fancy  plays. 
No,  we  were  just  a  lot  of  kids,  with  tanned  and  freckled 

hides ; 

There  were  no  concrete  grand  stands  when  we  played  at 
"choosing  sides." 

I  saw  a  ball  game  yesterday,  and  o'er  a  brass  band's  blare 
The  cheers  of  thirty  thousand  fans  were  soaring  through 

the  air. 
The  turnstiles  had  been   clicking   for  three   solid  golden 

hours, 

43 


RIGHT    OFF     THE     BAT 

Recording  wealth  and  profit  for  the  big  league  baseball 

powers. 
How  soon  we  lose  our  play  days!    How  swiftly  childhood 

glides ! 
There    were    no    clicking   turnstiles    when    we   played    at 

"choosing  sides." 

The  captains  used  to  toss  a  bat,  and  then,  hand  over  hand — 
But  why  repeat  a  story  every  boy  must  understand? 
Then  came  the  careful  picking — "I'll  take  Reddy."     "Give 

me  Flynn." 
"I'll   choose  you,   Skinny  Murphy."     "I'll  take   you,   Pat 

McGinn." 
They  picked  the  live  ones  first,  of  course,  and  finished  with 

the  snides; 
Feelings  were  often  ruffled  when  we  played  at  "choosing 

sides." 

Dear  reader,  you'll  remember,  if  you  peek  into  the  past, 
The  little  four-eyed  fellow  that  was  always  chosen  last. 
The  little  weak-kneed  urchin  that  the  captain  would  ignore 
Until  he  found  by  counting,  that  he  needed  one  man  more. 
He  couldn't  bat,   he   couldn't  field,   and   yet  that   shrimp 

to-day 
Is  making  laws  in  Congress,  while   his  captain  drives  a 

dray. 


44 


ODE   TO   A   GEORGIA   GENT 

A    SHUDDER    ran    around    Forbes    Field 
When  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 
The  brain  of  Honus  Wagner  reeled 
When  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 
Manager  Clarke  his  temples  clasped, 
The  Pirate  rooters  simply  gasped — 
Their  tenderest  feelings  had  been  rasped 
When  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 

The  Pirate  pitcher's  heart  stood  still 

When  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 
Gibson,  the  catcher,  had  a  chill 

When  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 
Large  gobs  of  smoke  began  to  crawl 
Across  the  ball  yard,  like  a  pall, 
And  gloom  was  brooding  over  all 

When  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 
45 


RIGHT    OFF     THE     BAT 

The  rooters  from  Detroit  went  mad 
When  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 

A  very  pleasant  time  was  had 
When  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 

Small  wonder  that  they  shouted  so ; 

In  Hughey  Jennings's  town,  we  know, 

The  burglar  list  is  sure  to  grow 
Since  Tyrus  Cobb  stole  home. 


LIFE   AND    BASEBALL 

WINTER  howled  around  the  corners  of  the  old- 
time  grocery  store, 
Where  the  baseball  star  was  sitting,  giving  out 

his  baseball  lore. 

Every  day  he  told  the  neighbors  in  his  little  Western  town 
How  he  hit  the  curves  of  Matty  and  the  shoots  of  Miner 

Brown. 
"No,   I  ain't  signed  up  this  season,"  he   would  tell  the 

gaping  throng, 
"And  I  won't  sign  boys,  believe  me,  till  the  check  looks 

good  and   strong. 
John  T.  Brush  knows  where  to  find  me,  and  he  knows  I'll 

play  the  game 
When  I  get  a  good  fat  contract" — but  the  contract  never 

came. 

"Maybe   I'll   go   South  to   Texas,"   said   a  gawky  young 

recruit, 
"If  the  contract  that  they  send  me  names  a  salary  that 

will  suit. 

Why,  they're  crazy  for  new  talent ;  all  the  papers  tell  me  so, 
And  your  little  Uncle  Dudley  isn't  out  to  skip  the  dough. 

47 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

I  can  play  that  third  sack,  fellows,  just  as  well  as  Devlin 

can, 
And  I  won't  take  half  a  paycheck,  when  I'm  every  inch 

a  man. 
When  I  get  my  kind  of  contract,  I'll  jump  out  and  grab 

the  fame, 
Not  till  then   will   I   get  busy" — but  the   contract  never 

came. 

Life  is  but  a  game  of  baseball,  with  its  players  everywhere ; 
Some  are  sulking  in  their  wigwams,  some  are  out  to  do 

and  dare. 
Some  are  working,  working,  working,  turning  labor  into 

fun; 
Others  talk  of  future  conquests,  and  depart  with  nothing 

done. 
Far  beyond   the   clouds   and   sunlight   dwells    a   magnate 

wondrous  kind, 
With  a   million,   million   contracts   always   waiting  to    be 

signed. 
Yours,  my  friend,  the  task  of  trying ;  yours  alone  the  bitter 

blame, 
If  you  tell,  when  life  is  ebbing,  how  the  contract  never 

came. 


48 


WHAT   HAPPENED    TO    HILO 

HORATIO  HILO  was  a  bird, 
He  used  to  romp  from  first  to  third 

On  any  kind  of  single. 
He  played  the  sun-field  like  a  master, 
You  never  saw  a  fielder  faster, 
And  oh,  how  he  could  bingle! 

Horatio  Hilo  played  out  West, 
Where  man  develops  to  his  best, 

And  Eastern  scouts  all  watched  him; 
They   trailed   him    through   the   month  of   June, 
They  said,  "Him  for  the  big  league  soon," 

And  finally  they  cotched  him. 

Horatio  joined  a  big  league  team, 
Thus  gratifying  boyhood's  dream, 

And  got  the  rooters  rooting; 
He  was  the  captain  of  the  crew 
At  spearing  flies  and  ground  balls,  too ; 

He  never  thought  of  booting. 
49 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

One  night  when  Jack  Frost  whispered  zero, 
A  man  named  Fletcher  met  our  hero 

And  offered  him  a  salary 
So  large  and  thick  and  fat  and  round 
That  it  would  reach  from  near  the  ground 

Clear  to  the  upper  gallery. 

Horatio  listened,  felt  the  clutch, 
And  subsequently  got  in  Dutch, 

His  former  chieftain  fired  him. 
The  chieftain  watched  his  bowed  down  head, 
And,  asked  for  explanation,  said 

Horatio  tired  him. 

"All  right!"  Horatio  said,  "you  betcher 
I'll  go  and  get  some  coin  from  Fletcher," 

But  he  was  snubbed  that  morning. 
So,  baseball  players,  if  you're  wise, 
And  think  you'd  like  to  Fletcherize, 

Hark  to  the  Gypsy's  warning! 


I    WAS   WITH    CLARKE 


(t 


I 


WAS  with  Clarke,"  the  pitcher  said 

To  the  Pittsburg  millionaire. 
The  rich  man  bowed  his  silvery  head 
To  the  pitcher  standing  there. 
"Enough,  good  man!    Give  me  your  mitt! 

Walk  right  in,  I  implore. 
Fred  Clarke  or  any  friend  of  his 
Finds  here  an  open  door." 

"I  was  with  Clarke,"  the  pitcher  said. 

"Never  mind,"  the  rich  man  cried. 
"Right  over  there  is  a  Morris  chair — 

Come,  sit  you  by  my  side. 
And  so  you  pitched  for  Clarke.    Well,  well! 

Try  a  flagon  of  this  wine, 
For  any  friend  of  Frederick  Clarke 

Is  sure  a  friend  of  mine." 
Si 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

"I  was  with  Clarke,"  the  twirler  said. 

"So  you  told  me,"  said  his  host. 
"Fill  up  your  glass,  and  let  me  pass 

The  best  cigar  I  boast." 
"As  I  was  saying,"  the  pitcher  cried, 

Taking  a  puff  and  sip, 
"As  I  was  saying,  I  was  with  Clarke 

On  one  Spring  training  trip!" 

Then  from  his  cozy  seat  arose 

That  Pittsburg  millionaire. 
He  grabbed  the  stranger  by  the  nose 

And  yanked  him  from  his  chair. 
And  then  he  closed  the  truthful  eyes 

And  split  the  lower  lip 
Of  the  man  who  was  with  Frederick  Clarke 

On  one  Spring  training  trip. 


"HOME    FOLKS" 

"{^TRANGER,  give  me  a  chaw  of  terbaccer," 
^^^         Came  from  the  lanky  Georgia   "cracker." 
^^         "Know  Ty  Cobb?   Wai,  you  bet  we  do! 

Desperate  youngster,  tough  clear  through! 

This  is  his  home,  but  we  ain't  too  proud. 

We  hope  he'll  stay  with  that  Dee-troit  crowd. 

From  all  we  hear,  he  spends  his  nights 

Roamin'  the  streets  and  havin'  fights. 

And  when  he's  playin',  from  what  folks  say, 

He  spikes  a  baserunner  every  day. 

Stranger,  we're  all  his  father's  friends, 

But  them  wild  young  blades  all  strikes  bad  ends!" 

"Is  this  where  Mathewson  lives?"  I  asked 
Of  a  peaceful  person,  who  calmly  basked 
Up  on  the  side  of  a  sunny  hill 
O'erlooking  the  town  of  Factoryville. 
"He  was  born  here,  stranger,"  the  native  said. 
"What  is  the  matter?     Is  he  dead? 

53 


RIGHT    OFF     THE    BAT 

I  wouldn't  be  sorry,  to  tell  the  truth, 

For  there  is  a  mighty  swelled  up  youth! 

They  tell  me,  those  that  follows  them  things, 

Matty  is  one  of  baseball's  kings. 

That's  a  knock  for  him  and  his  folks,  I  say, 

'Cause  baseball  is  crooked,  anyway!" 

Then  I  went  to  the  home  of  John  McGraw, 
And  hearkened  well  to  the  natives'  jaw. 
They  mentioned  John  in  a  manner  grim, 
And  told  of  all  that  they  had  on  him. 
And  I  went  to  the  home  of  Francois  Chance, 
Hearing  them  give  their  idol  the  lance. 
And  to  many  another  home  I  went, 
Finding  this  truth  to  be  evident: 
He  who  wins  fame  by  moving  away 
To  a  big  league  town  will  be  wise  to  stay! 


54 


THE    OUTFIELDER'S    DREAM 

WILD  was  the  night,  yet  a  wilder  night 
Hung  'round  the  fielder's  pillow, 
For  he   dreamt   that  night   of  his   wondrous 

might 

With  the  ash,  also  known  as  the  willow. 
A  few  fond  cockroaches  lingered  near, 

From  the  mouldy  moulding  pouring; 
They  knew,  by  the  sounds  that  smote  the  ear, 
That  the  hard  hitting  demon  was  snoring. 

They  knew  by  the  way  he  floundered  there, 

By  the  murmurs  hastily  spoken, 
That  he  dreamed  a  bit  of  his  home  run  hit 

The  day  that  the  fence  was  broken. 
They  knew  that  he  dreamed  of  his  record  grand, 

His  wonderful  batting  and  fielding, 
That  he  always  hit  safe  when  Ty  Cobb  fanned, 

That  he  had  the  pitchers  yielding. 

55 


RIGHT     OFF     T  PI  E     BAT 

Wild  was  the  night  in  the  farming  town, 

Wild  as  the  wildest  battle, 
Then  the  father's  voice  rang  out,  "Come  down 

And  feed  them  gol  dern  cattle !" 
The  cockroaches  back  to  the  moulding  crept, 

The  sleeper  rose  from  the  clover; 
And  into  his  boots  he  deftly  leapt — 

The  outfielder's  'dream  was  over. 


THE    LAW   OF   AVERAGES 

The  Winter  League  is  here  again,  and  in  his  native  town 

The  hero  of  a  thousand  games  has  quietly  settled  down. 

*     *     * 

SPIKE  MULLIGAN,   the   shortstop  brave,  who  led 
the  league  in  hitting, 
And  drew  one  thousand  bones  a  month  for  tending 

to  his   knitting, 

Is  working  in  the  corner  store,  slaving  to  beat  the  band, 
And  drawing  fifteen  seeds  a  month  for  selling  sugared  sand. 
O'Halloran,  the  pitcher,  who  was  certainly  a  hummer, 
And  got  a  prince's  ransom  for  the  work  he  did  last  Summer, 
Is  keeping  books   this  Winter   for   a  shop  that  deals   in 

buckets, 
And  getting  for  the  same  each  month  as  much  as  twenty 

ducats. 

McGonnigal,  the  fielder  fleet,  who  hit  like  mad  all  season, 
And  got  a  monthly  envelope  that  seemed  beyond  all  reason, 
Is  driving  team  in  Grangerville,  and  adding  to  his  hoard 
By  drawing  down  a  salary  of  five  a  week  and  board. 

57 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

McGinn,  the  famous  backstop,  who  could  throw  so  well 

to  bases, 

And  who  received  last  season  fifty-seven  hundred  aces, 
Is  throwing  cordwood  on  a  sled,  far  from  the  rooters'  gaze, 

And  getting  eighteen  dollars  cash  for  every  thirty  days. 

*     *     * 

The  Winter  League  is  here  again,  and  in  his  native  town 
The  hero  of  a  thousand  games  has  quietly  settled  down. 


A    CONVERTED    ROOTER 

SAY,  on  the  level,  fellows,  just  a  year  ago  to-day 
I  wouldn't  give  a  nickel  for  to  watch  them  Yankees 

play; 

The  Joints  was  good  enough  for  me,  and  since  I  was  a  kid 
I  hustled  to  the  Polo  Grounds  and  seen  each  stunt  they  did. 
Yankees?  Well,  say,  I  couldn't  see  the  Yankees  with  a 

glass ; 
I'd  always  say  their  style  of  play  was  very  much  high  grass. 

Yes,  it  was  all  the  Polo  Grounds — I  never  missed  a  game ; 
I'd  go  if  I  was  blind  and  deaf  and  paralyzed  and  lame. 
When  Matty  pitched  I'd  lose  my  head  and  outlung  all  the 

boys — 
The  ushers  put  me  out  once,  when  I  made  too  blame  much 

noise. 
When  Farrell's  club  was  here  instead,  I  used  to  go  to  Coney, 

Because  I  always  figgered  that  the  Yanks  was  only  phony. 

59 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

But,  say!  I've  changed  my  mind  a  lot,  and  that's  no  show- 
girl's dream; 
If  Farrell  hadn't  been  all  white,  the  Joints  would  be  no 

team. 

They  didn't  have  no  home  at  all  after  the  fire  that  time, 
But  Farrell  says,  "Use  my  grounds,  boys;  I  hope  it  helps 

you  climb." 

A  guy  that  does  a  thing  like  that,  without  no  hot-air  mush, 
Can  have  my  fifty  cents  a  day,  the  same  as  John  T.  Brush ! 


60 


TO    THE    LADY    BUGS 

LADY  BUG,  Lady  Bug,  don't  you  fly  home- 
Stay  till  the  ninth  ere  deciding  to  roam ; 
Don't  you  despair  when  the  outlook  seems  blue, 
Be  a  game  Lady  Bug — see  the  game  through! 

"Why  does  that  man  wear  those  things  on  his  shins?" 
"How  can  we  tell,  when  it's  over,  who  wins?" 
"Which  is  the  umpire?    Tell  me,  George,  please, 
And  what  do  they  mean  when  they  call  him  a  cheese?" 
"Isn't  that  Matty,  that  little  boy  there? 
What— that's  the  bat  boy?    Well,  I  do  declare!" 
"Why  do  they  throw  to  that  man  on  first  base?" 
"Hasn't  that  Indian  got  a  fine  face?" 
"What  do  they  mean  when  they  yell  at  each  other?" 
"Don't  you  think  Wiltse  looks  just  like  my  brother?" 

61 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

"Can't  I  keep  score  just  as  well  without  paper?" 
"See  Mister  Latham,  the  way  he  can  caper!" 
"Isn't  this  grand  ?    I  could  come  here  at  noon !" 
"Well,  I  declare !    Is  it  over  so  soon  ?" 

Lady  Bug,  Lady  Bug,  feathers  and  fuss, 
Ask  all  the  questions  you  want  to  of  us. 
Maybe  we'll  kid  you,  but,  please,  don't  you  care; 
Baseball  is  better  because  you  are  there. 


62 


POLO    IN    ARIZONA 

* '  TT    TT  ^  W  are  y°U)  Pa^ '"  sa'^  Phoenix  Phil,  when  he 
i        ;  saw  me  late  last  night ; 

•*-    -*-     "I'm  back  from  the  polo  game,"  said  I,  "let's 

go  and  get  a  bite." 
"These  polo  games  are  funny  enough,"  said  my  Arizona 

friend, 

"With  all  their  swell  society  folks  and  style  without  no  end ; 
But  a  polo  game  worth  hiking  sixty  thousand  miles  to  see 
Was  a  game  we  played  on  the  desert  once,"  said  Phoenix 
Phil  to  me. 

"An  English  guy  with  an  extra  eye,"  said  my  Arizona 

friend, 
"Had  taught  us  the  game  of  polo,  from  beginning  clean 

to  end. 
The  Prescott  Kid  on  Old  Katydid  was  the  star  we  banked 

on  most, 
For  the  Kid  was  cool  as  a  pickle  and  fast  as  a  midnight 

ghost. 

Old  Katydid,  Kid's  pet  bronco,  was  smarter  than  'K.  &  E.,' 
Which  is  saying  a  lot  for  a  bucking  horse,"  said  Phoenix 

Phil  to  me. 

63 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

"Well,  the  English  guy  with  the  extra  eye  picked  a  team 

of  his  English  pals, 
And  we  played  a  game  of  polo  for  the  Phoenix  boys  and 

gals. 
But  the  game  ain't  more  than  started  when  the  Prescott 

Kid  gets  gay 
And  into  the  thick  of  the  playing  he  bucks  with  his  outlaw 

gray. 
Them  English  was  game  as  pebbles,  but  they  broke  and 

then  they  hid, 
Which  wouldn't  surprise  you  much,  pal,  if  you  saw  Old 

Katydid. 

*     *     * 

"Polo  here  in  the  East  is  fine,  where  hosses  has  pedigree, 
But  Old  Katydid  was  the  break-up  Kid,"  said  Phoenix 
Phil  to  me. 


64 


THE    LADDIES'    LEAGUE 

THE   Grown-up   Fan,  a   wealthy   man,  sat   in   his 
grandstand  seat, 
Gray  hair  and  worry  for  his  head,  gout  for  his 

puffy  feet. 

Watching  the  New  York  Giants  beat  the  Cincinnati  team, 
He  closed  his  eyes  an  instant  and  he  dreamed  a  lightning 

dream. 

The  horsehide  spheres  changed  suddenly  to  battered  ten- 
cent  balls, 
And  spotless  uniforms  of  white  became  blue  overalls. 

Gone  were  the  high-priced  athletes  with  the  letters  on  their 

breasts ; 
A  lot  of  urchins  showed  instead,  minus  their  coats  and 

vests — 
No  blue-clad  umpire  ran  the  game  with  frown  and  raucous 

yell— 
The  kids  just  ran  the  game  themselves,  and  ran  it  mighty 

well. 
"One  Old  Cat"  and  a  slivered  bat  and  shanks  that  scorned 

fatigue 
Were  quite  the  whole  equipment  in  the  famous  Laddies' 

League. 

65 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

"It's  funny,"  said  the  Grown-up  Fan,  his  vagrant  vision 

o'er, 

"But  baseball  of  this  high-class  type  is  something  of  a  bore. 
Maybe  it's  all  too  flawless  as  they  run  the  game  to-day — 
It  doesn't  grip  me,  somehow,  like  the  games  we  used  to 

play." 
The  Grown-up  Fan,  a  worn  old  man,  began  his  homeward 

climb 
With  memories  of  the  Laddies'  League  that  bars  us  all 

in  time. 


66 


THE    $11,000  BEAUTY 

OF  COURSE,  McGraw  is  always  wrong — he  never 
picks  a  winner. 
That's  why  the  Giant's  backers  never  have  the 

price  for  dinner. 

His  record  as  a  manager  is  one  long  trail  of  blunders — 
He  always  kept  the  dead  ones  and  he  always  canned  the 

wonders. 
For  three  long  years,   with  hoots  and  jeers,   the   rooters 

cried  :  "You  boob ! 

Why  don't  you  fire  this  Marquard?"     But  McGraw  stood 
pat  on  "Rube." 

McGraw  has  often  kept  young  chaps  when  rooters  shouted 

"Sell  them !" 
He  never  tells  the  rooters  why,  and  doesn't  have  to  tell 

them. 

He  doesn't  like  a  lobster,  and,  believe  me,  Alexander, 
He  wasn't  on  a  dead  one  when  he  kept  that  big  left-hander. 
You've  no  idea  how  many  fans  called  John  McGraw  a  boob 
For  letting  other    youngsters    go    and    standing    pat    on 

"Rube." 

67 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

Rich    merchants    criticised    McGraw    in   terms   that    were 

unkind — 
Merchants  with  lazy  shipping  clerks  and  men  that  robbed 

them  blind. 
But  Mac  just  smiled  and  held  his  peace.    He  should  have 

said  :    "Don't  whine ! 
Mismanage  your  own  business,  boys,  and  let  me  manage 

mine !" 
When  Matty's  cunning  goes  at  last — all  arms  in  time  must 

tire — 
He'll  leave  a  great  successor  in  the  boy  Mac  wouldn't  fire. 


68 


THE    LAY   OF   THE    NEW    YORK    FAN 

YES,  the  baseball  season's  over  and  the  geese  are 
flying  South; 
Giants    count   their   winnings    gaily,   Yanks   are 

(frothing  at  the  mouth. 
Glancing  o'er  the  season's  records,  looking  at  the  layout 

now, 
Nothing   seems  to   bring  deep    furrows   to   my   pale   and 

thoughtful  brow. 

True,  we  didn't  win  the  pennant  as  we  did  in  days  of  yore 
For  the  Yankees  couldn't  stop  'em  and  the  Giants  couldn't 

score, 
But  the  New  York  fans  must  chuckle   (you  can  get  this 

at  a  glance) 
When  they  think  of  the  Athletics  and  of  Peerless  Leader 

Chance. 

Oh,  the  Cubs  of  other  seasons,  how  they  made  us  writhe 

and  curse! 
How  they  made  us  leave  the  ball  yard  moving  slowly,  a  la 

hearse. 

69 


RIGHT     OFF     THE     BAT 

Oh  you   Sheckard,   oh  you   Schulte,  oh  you   great  Three 

Fingered   Brown, 

Oh  you  little  shortstop  Tinker,  idol  of  Chicago  town! 
We  have  followed  all  your  doings,  we  have  seen  you  going 

back, 
And  to-night  we're  burning  incense  at  the  shrine  of  Connie 

Mack. 

From  the  Battery  to  Harlem,  rooters  do  a  noisy  dance 
When  they  think  of  the  Athletics  and  of  Peerless  Leader 

Chance. 

Where  Lake  Michigan  is  seething  as  the  seasons  hasten  on, 

Near  the  home  of  beef  and  bustle,  near  the  home  of  Bath- 
house John, 

Gloom  has  settled,  fans  feel  nettled,  nerves  are  right  on 
edge  like  knives, 

Fathers  spank  their  little  children,  husbands  beat  their 
trusting  wives. 

But  the  rooters  of  Manhattan  have  no  tales  of  woe  to  tell 

As  they  read  their  Sunday  papers  in  the  homes  they  love 
so  well. 

Yes,  they  simply  have  to  chuckle  (you  can  get  this  at  a 
glance) 

When  they  think  of  the  Athletics  and  of  Peerless  Leader 
Chance. 


70 


THE    OLD    ROOTER 

I  SAW  them  open  yesterday,  the  Giants  and  their  foe- 
men, 
I  saw  them  field  and  hit  and  run,  the  fast  men  and 

the  slow  men ; 

The  sky  was  just  as  blue  above,  the  sod  as  green  beneath 
As  when  the  old-time   Giants   used  to   frisk  around  the 
heath. 

But  Billy  Gilbert  wasn't  there, 

Old  Second  Baseman  Billy, 
Who   used   to  pluck  'em   from  the  air 

And  drive  the  bleachers  silly. 

I  saw  them  open  yesterday,  I  heard  the  turnstile  clicking; 
I  heard  the  popcorn  venders'  ery  and  heard  the  tickers 

ticking. 
The  field  was  smooth  as  desert  land,  the  multitude  was 

shouting, 
And  to  the  heavens  rose  the  sound  of  clouting,  clouting, 

clouting. 

But  Michael  Donlin  wasn't  there, 
The  Mike  they  used  to  cheer  for. 

"Come  on,  Mike,  clout!"  was  all  the  shout 
We  used  to  have  an  ear  for. 


RIGHT    OFF     THE    BAT 

The  Giants  opened  yesterday,  an  April   day  and  sunny; 
They  played  before  a  New  York  crowd  of  fashion,  fun 

and  money. 
Grandstanders  cheered,  the  young  fans  jeered;  the  crowd 

was  standing,  swaying, 
It  made  me  sigh  for  days  gone  by,  when  first  I  saw  them 

playing. 
But  Dan  McGann  has  gone  away 

And  Dahlen  with  his  science; 
Mertes  and  Seymour  couldn't  stay — 
The  Giants  opened  yesterday 
But  not  the  old-time  Giants. 


"IF" 

(Wireless  Apologies  to  Rudyard  Kipling) 

IF  John  McGraw  can  hold  his  health  and  cunning, 
If  Matty's  whip  retains  its  fibre  fine, 
If  Raymond  doesn't  keep  the  lager  running 
From  Harlem  to  Tom  Sharkey's  down  the  line; 
If  Ames  can  shake  the  hoodoo  that  has  gripped  him 

And  bend  them  over  as  our  Leon  can, 
If  Larry  Doyle  will  fire  the  boots  that  tripped  him, 
And  field  to  suit  the  most  exacting  fan; 

If  Harold  Chase  can  keep  his  boys  together, 

The  veterans  and  the  youngsters  side  by  side, 
If  Vaughn  and  Ford  and  Quinn  can  safely  weather 

The  season's  storms  and  keep  a  winning  stride; 
If  Chase  remains  the  friskiest  of  friskers 

Around  the  bag  he  plays  so  wondrous  well; 
If  Edward  Everett  Bell  will  trim  his  whiskers, 

New  York  may  win  two  pennants — who  can  tell? 


73 


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